Stones and Thrones, A Study In John Watson
by raynperdition
Summary: Johnlock. It's been two years since John saw Sherlock. Things have changed, but he's never stopped loving Sherlock, never stopped hoping it had all been a magic trick, still begging for that miracle. Will he get it? Or have things changed far more than either of them knew? Spoiler alert for season three. Warnings will be mentioned before each chapter.


**Stones and Thrones...A Study of John Watson.**

A/N: **Chapter title is Fall Down and Never Get Up Again by La Dispute. **

**This is me being completely in love with season 3- of which I've watched the first two episodes- and deciding to do something a little like it. But, it follows on the very beginning of the first episode. So, I suppose there are spoilers. You've been forewarned. This is a little more about John. Kind of. I mean, I can't avoid being infatuated with Sherlock. But, it is Johnlock. **

**I hope you enjoy! And please review, tell me how you think it is thus far. **

**Sherlock doesn't belong to me. It belongs to BBC and Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

* * *

It had been nearly two years since Sherlock plummeted to his death right before his eyes. In a way, he'd tried to move on, falling in love- if you could call it that- with Mary Morstan and leaving 221B Baker Street for what felt like a final goodbye to the small apartment he'd shared with the man he'd never even said 'I love you' to. So, why was he staring up at the window he had looked out of so many times, looking more like a ghost haunting a place he'd never departed from in the first place, and less like a man who had, more or less, tried to find a life for himself. Even if his life was laying in a coffin buried deep within the crust of the earth.

Some times, he thought he saw Sherlock, saw him in tall, dark-haired men wearing trench coats. But their stride wasn't brisk enough, their cheekbones not sharp enough to cut through diamond, their hair not that perfect shade of hellish pith. Perhaps he was obsessed, maybe he was consumed by his grief. Sherlock, ever the diva, would laugh at his melodramatics, told him to get on with his life and stop being such an idiot. But even with that deep rolling voice berating him inside his mind, he couldn't get passed it. He'd seen his best friend laying on the ground, bleeding, shattered. And even then, long before then, John had known. He'd known Sherlock meant so much more time than just a best friend. John had fallen so hard, like it was he who had fallen from the roof of St. Bart's, for a man who didn't even understand the mere concept of love.

But what tended to trip him up in these moments of deep reverie, was that Sherlock had loved. Maybe it was a begrudging, silent, inconspicuous and hidden love. But it was love nonetheless, and that was more than enough for John.

He sighed and shook his head with a short, jerky move. _Move on, John. He's gone. There will be no miracle this time, no great reveal. He won't come back in a great show of dramatics, a flash of his coat and an arrogant, irritating smirk. He's gone. He's truly gone._

Dead.

Did that describe Sherlock Holmes?

Or John Watson- the walking dead.

* * *

Sherlock ran his bow gently over the violin, the feeling of it back in his hands after two years like something sacred. Low, melancholy tones floating through the air. His eyes were closed, body swaying gently with his movements, the song seeming to flow through his body from the violin pressed snugly to him. He heard the door open behind him, but it no mind. He knew who it was, the smell of Mycroft's cologne far too familiar for his own liking. He'd been the only one to know of his plan, to know he wasn't dead, but all too alive. He hadn't been in London since his feigned mortality, and Moriarty's all too real end. Sometimes, he saw that blood and bits of brain fly out from the back of James' head in his dreams.

"Will you please stop with all that depressing _sound,_ Sherlock? We have things to discuss." Sherlock bristled at the sound of Mycroft's posh, imperial tone. Feeling the mood broken, he dropped the violin on a chair, walked across a table, and hopped over the back of the chair, landing firmly in his seat. "That infernal music is going to drive me mad. I think it's time." The finality in his voice made no difference to Sherlock, rather it was the ringing truth in his words.

It was time.

Time to face John, to face Mrs. Hudson, to go back to 221B Baker Street. Time to go home. A tiny nod of his head indicated that he agreed. A smirk grew on his face, there were cake crumbs on Mycroft's suit jacket. "How is the diet going, brother?" Rarely did he call Mycroft his brother, unless he were mocking him- and now was no different. Mycroft's help over the past two years had not entirely changed their relationship. They still hated each other externally, but Sherlock knew Myc had a certain fondness for him that- when questioned- would not admit under the greatest duress. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Mycroft stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing with something feral and competitive in both of them. But as usual, the man ignored his little brother's attempts to get under his skin. "It's time to face the music, Sherlock." Mycroft stood with that same sweeping elegance they both had- although Sherlock's fluidity was a little more rough and sharp around the edges. "The vacation is over. We've successfully obliterated Moriarty's network. You are _safe."_ His back had been facing Sherlock, but on the final word, he turned to face the slouching insolence in human form sitting on his beautifully upholstered chair.

For a second, they shared a mutual understanding that it was, indeed, important to Mycroft Holmes that his baby brother was safe and secure. Perhaps that was the cause of all the surveillance. But then, these were words that were never spoken aloud, shared mostly in moments like this when words were not needed. And occasionally, in the actions of both men to keep the other safe and sound under watchful eyes that caught everything. Again, Sherlock gave an almost imperceptible nod which Mycroft returned. The matter dropped instantly, and the elder once again turned his back.

"Go face him, Sherlock. The longer you wait, the more angry he will be." Mycroft left the room with that elegance that they had learned showed power and confidence and strength. And perhaps, was the tether that kept them so stoic, and kept Sherlock from being the fantastic villain he should've become.

His eyes narrowed at the words. John. How to do it? Knock on the door of his new home in suburbia? Invade a reservation he had for dinner? Appear in disguise at his work? So many possibilities, but they all had the same ending. John Watson was going to kill him...and this time, he might not return.

* * *

John fixed his collar a little nervously. He was going to ask Mary to marry him. Tonight. He had had an epiphany after visiting Baker Street that morning. If Sherlock wasn't coming back from the dead, why was he still waiting on him? Holmes was truly dead, and it was time he started living again. Mary was as perfect as they came: beautiful, sweet, loving, accepting, listening to him patiently when he ranted about Sherlock and how awful he was and how terrible of a man he was and how he missed him so much, it felt like a crater had been blown into his metaphorical heart. He had never told her that he was in love with Sherlock no matter how much he publicly claimed he had no feelings for the manic, beautiful sociopath. Maybe, for a long time, he'd denied it inwardly, too. And maybe that was why it was so hard to accept Sherlock's death, because he'd never had the chance to tell him he loved him. Just once, no matter the consequences, before he died.

But, life throws you some fantastic curveballs that we call tragedy. A small, simple word for something so life-altering and heart-shattering.

Mary came back, sitting down not long after the annoying, chatty waiter had buzzed back to get their wine. He was shaking, the ring in his pocket like dead weight that was dragging him down. Well, no time like the present. "Mary, I know...I know it hasn't been long. And, and I know that, for all intensive purposes, most could say it hasn't been long enough. But, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me." She smiled ecstatically, knowing what was coming, but waiting patiently for him to ramble through his little speech. Maybe, eventually, he could love her as fully as he had loved Sherlock. Maybe. "And, if you'll have me..." He reached towards his pocket and the waiter was back, thrusting the wine he'd ordered in his face.

"Fine selection, sir." French accent that he'd love to wring from him with his hands around his throat. Mary was grinning at him, apparently finding the whole situation hysterical. "I think you'll admire the almost familiar tones. Like a _familiar face."_ The French accent cleared and John was left with whiplash as he spun to look at the man.

_Oh my god._

"Not as quick as you once were. A few years ago, you'd have caught me right off the bat. I must admit, I'm a bit disappointed." He picked up Mary's napkin and dipped it in water, wiping off the ridiculous little mustache. "Mine comes off, please tell me the same goes with yours." An infuriating little smirk flashed across his perfect bow-shaped mouth. The rage was rising.

"Oh no, you're not-" Mary looked extremely concerned. She had reason to be.

"Oh _yes,_ I am." Sherlock seemed extremely pleased with himself, his voice that same tone as when he'd clued Lestrade and the rest of the world's silly mortals in on the motive and perpetrator. John was slowly rising off his chair, his muscles seemingly turned to mush. Oh, he was going to kill Sherlock Holmes, and this time, he would _stay_ dead.

* * *

A/N: **Stay tuned, folks. I hope you enjoy. **

**SPOILER ALERT: Although, for those of you who've seen season 3, this seems to be following the canon, it won't stay that way. Trust me. Johnlock will commence...eventually. **

**xoxox, Rayn~**


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